Pie
by lulu0814
Summary: Who is this woman who sits alone in the Royal Diner? How did she earn the scars that disfigure her face? And why does she always order pie without ever eating a bite? Oneshot with an epilogue.
1. Chapter 1

**My first Bones fic, yay. Bones is awesome. I know, I should update my GWTW story, but I ended up writing this instead just to get it unstuck from my head. It's based on AnabelleG's story She, and you can go read it if you want, it's good. You don't _have_ to read it to understand, but still. By the way, this isn't exactly my usual style, so please tell me if I failed completely.  
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**I WILL finish Just a Dream, I swear. It's just going to take a while... Sorry.  
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**Disclaimer: Bones and its characters are not mine. The other characters are mine and you are free to steal them (though I have no idea why you would do that). The story idea also belongs to AnabelleG. Seriously, go read her fic, it's in my favorites. Now. Go. I'll wait for you.**

**EDIT: Due to popular demand, I'm adding a_ tissue warning_, please grab a box of kleenex if you cry a lot, folks. There is now a french version, which Ptitange99 was kind enough to translate for tous les francophones out there. If you happen to be french, you can go read that one and thank her for being nice.  
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**Pie**

There she is.

That woman. Sitting there, in the diner I've worked for almost five years now, always in the same booth, staring into the distance with that same ineffable look of... sadness? Regret? Loneliness? I can't really tell.

She's serene, she always is, but her immobility seems to be hiding some deep, unnamable emotions she refuses to reveal to the rest of the world. Maybe it's because of the angry scars that disfigure one side of her beautiful face? Maybe this whole 'aura of mystery' surrounding her is simply caused by her disfigurement. Maybe her silence doesn't hide anything. Maybe I should stop asking myself so many useless questions when the answers are probably disappointingly mundane.

But I have trouble making myself believe that, because every time she's here, she orders a piece of pie, usually with a cup of coffee. And every time she's here, she never eats a bite. She just contemplates the dish, with the same quiet and unfathomable expression she uses to appraise everything else. I've seen her glance shift down from the windowpane to the table, and her finger hesitantly caress the edge of the plate from time to time, almost unconsciously, with a touch that looks too gentle not to mean anything, a touch that would be considered undeniably tender if it merely stroked a cheek instead of a dish. It's as if the pie is the cause of her sadness. Or regret. Or loneliness. I'm not sure which. It could be all of them.

That weird habit of never eating the pie she orders is what really intrigues me. Not the terrible scars, or the stillness she seems to be drowning in, or even the nagging feeling that I know her from somewhere, that I've met her before or seen her on TV. No, what fascinates me is the untouched piece of pie she watches over with such an intense expression of… nothingness. I want to know what's so special about those pies, what she hides under her calm exterior, and whether I'm imagining all this stuff. Millie, who usually works the same shifts as me, thinks I am nuts. Yet somehow, unlike her, I don't believe the woman's behavior can be explained by a simple fear of calories. Her figure is fine.

I remember she used to come here almost every day with a man, before she got the scars, but I have to admit I remember the guy better than her. God, he was hot. His smile could melt any woman's knees before she knew what hit her, even the gay ones. Plus, he was tall, dark, and buff, the kind of male specimen who usually wind up as underwear models in sunny California, not here, wearing a tie all day and putting up with a regular job in dreary old DC. He and that woman often came at any hour, sometimes laughing and bickering, sometimes talking softly and looking into each others' eyes adoringly, always madly in love and pretty obviously so. Seriously, they were one of those couples who are absolutely perfect with together while the rest of us can only gaze at them feeling secretly jealous.

I especially remember this one time, years ago, when the guy came in with crutches looking mighty beat up. (Even the bruises on his cute cheekbones couldn't make his smile any less attractive.) That meal stands out in my mind because when I served the table next to theirs, I overheard him say something like: "…I needed to give you time to find me." I heard him pause slightly. And then, reassuringly: "Oh, I've been tortured worse." He even chuckled a little, as though being tortured was no big deal. I pretended not to eavesdrop and walked away, a bit dazed by the unexpected piece of information this man had unknowingly provided to a random waitress.

Then, a moment later they started _singing_. Singing and laughing in the middle of a diner full of people. Even though I didn't know the song, and even though neither one of them could claim to be a particularly great singer, it was the most romantic thing I've ever seen in my life. Maybe it was _because_ I didn't know the song, and _because_ that man had a pretty mediocre voice that it touched me so much. It felt so real, it was beautiful because it was genuine, and though they were in the middle of a restaurant, it felt intimate. Millie saw them from the counter too, and we were still giggling like teenagers over how sweet they both were after we left the diner.

Now that I think of it, that man probably wasn't some white-collar-desk-job guy at all, even if he wore a suit. Maybe he's some kind of secret agent, like James Bond. I'm not sure if those people exist in real life, but it would explain his suits. People who are as good-looking as he is should not be tortured, that's for sure. Generally my focus was completely directed at the woman's hot partner, which meant I was too busy staring at the man's face and other beautiful body parts to notice his companion.

Until at some point they abruptly stopped coming.

After a long absence, one evening the woman reappeared all alone in the booth, with scars on one side of her face, a piece of blackberry pie keeping her company, and a dejected appearance. I then realized I hadn't seen her for the past few months. And it was only when she sat alone, when I was no longer blinded by my own envy or her hot boyfriend's grin, that I truly saw her properly and started recognizing her from some place. I'm almost certain I saw her on television, but I can't remember the exact context. Or maybe we went to school together. Or I saw her in a magazine. Not being able to remember really irritates me.

Now she comes from time to time, not nearly as often as she used to back when she still smiled, and puzzles the staff with her visible eagerness in staring at pies for no apparent reason. I think it might have something to do with his sudden departure. The guy really liked his pies, if my memory serves me right. Maybe they broke up and she misses him. Maybe he became an underwear model after all and moved to LA. Or maybe it has something to do with those horrible scars.

*****

I know who she is now. Temperance Brennan. Dr Temperance Brennan, the bestselling writer. I know what happened to her face.

I finally recognized her when I saw Ed reading her latest book on the couch, something about "The thrilling and heart-wrenching conclusion of Temperance Brennan's acclaimed _Bone_ saga." The lady in the diner's picture was on the back cover, although her face was still intact and unblemished on the photograph.

I'd never read those books before, as much as Eddie tried to make me, since they were much too morbid for my taste. Pride and Prejudice and The Notebook, that's what I read. But the lady at the diner had written those books, the lady at the diner was famous, and according to Eddie, the gorgeous man who stopped coming with her was her FBI partner. That explains the torture part, I guess. I had to admit I was curious about the content of those books.

Special Agent Seeley Booth. Huh. What kind of name is that? Seeley? Is it French or something? I don't like it. He's more like a… I don't know. A David maybe? Or Paul, something else not as bizarre. Anyway, I asked Eddie for his copy of the first book, and he looked at me like a Martian when I actually started reading it. I've refused to touch Brennan's books at least as many times as Stephen King's. Yet, although this was definitively not my favorite genre, the excitement lingering from my discovery fueled my need to read those gruesome stories and learn more about their author.

To my astonishment, there was a healthy amount of romance beneath the rotting victims. I immediately fell in love with Andrew and his antics. God, Kathy is a lucky gal. I became a shipper before I was halfway through the first novel. I tore through the remainder of the series in a matter of days, smiling at the dedications to Special Agent Seeley Booth (friend and partner) and the elaborate thank-yous to her other acquaintances in front of each novel, while I watched Andy and Kathy's relationship unfold with interest. I quickly reached the last book. Eddie of course hadn't had the time to finish it, and so I borrowed a copy from the library.

For some unexplainable reason, I was extremely nervous when I opened the glossy library book's front cover. Instead of the usually decorous lines announcing her gratitude, the first page simply read:

"For Booth. More than ever."

Andy died in that book.

Ed was annoyed at me for spoiling the ending, yet he still consoled me when I dissolved into a puddle of tears after finishing the last chapter. I bawled through the whole funeral. He teased me for crying over a fictional character, especially at my age. I asked him if he was insinuating that I was old. He said no. He said he didn't think I'd cry so much at his own funeral, and that I loved Andy way more than I ever loved him. I told him I wouldn't cry at his funeral at all if he was going to be so mean to me. He made me a banana split with M&Ms on top.

I love Eddie.

Still, I was thoroughly depressed. After bemoaning "the best fictional FBI agent in the world"'s death on the Bones chat boards, I tried to uncover the past of that Temperance Brennan and her Agent Booth. Now that I knew the name of my mystery woman, and she happened to be famous, it wasn't hard to find out what had happened to her and her face.

According to CNN, Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth had worked together for years on some highly dangerous cases and their solving rates were through the roof. While arresting a suspect, a bomb had gone off unexpectedly, killing two and injuring four. One of the two casualties turned out to be Special Agent Booth. The website had photos. He left behind a young son and a distraught partner, forensic anthropologist, and bestselling author who now sits without him in a diner where they used to eat, contemplating plates of pies with sadness, regret, and absolute loneliness.

Agent Booth was dead. Some people on the boards even claimed he had died for her, that he had saved her. Just like Andrew had in the book. Was Andy based on Booth? Had she ended her series by killing Andy because it was pointless to keep on writing when her love and inspiration was gone? The idea made me cry again. I felt pathetic.

Eddie told me I should watch the news more often so I would know about stuff like this. I told him to leave me alone, you jerk. He finally became aware of just how serious I was about this mess, and he left me alone like I told him to. I instantly regretted my words.

All I could think of was the no longer nameless hot guy, wearing his beautiful smile, ordering a piece of strawberry pie as the woman he loved casually leaned over the table to steal his fries. I thought I could vaguely remember a little boy with floppy hair and a smile as beautiful as his father's, who'd never see his daddy again anymore. I saw the boy's now deceased father, his handsome cheekbones bruised and blue, making an offhand remark about torture and singing an old unknown song a little off key. I saw the same person blown up in a deadly explosion, his battered body unrecognizable. But mostly I saw that woman, her disfigured face, her cherished piece of pie one of the rare tangible fragments of _him_ she still had left. In my mind, I saw her caress the edge of the plate again, and again, and again.

*****

There she is.

That woman. Sitting in the diner, in the same booth, with the same pie, looking absolutely no different from usual. Of course my own inner turmoil has no effect on her.

Should I talk to her?

No. Not today. I can't trouble a grief-stricken person with my offensive questions. Heck, I don't even know what to ask her. I will next time, though. I'll bring a book for her to sign next time. I'll think about it, and next time I'll know what to say to her. I won't feel as overwhelmed by the vastness of her loss by then.

*****

Tonight I decided to read the acknowledgments at the end of Temperance Brennan's last book, even though I usually never read them. They've always seemed like a waste of trees to me. Why do authors have so many people to thank? A few lines in front of the story should be enough for the dedications, more than that was simply self-indulgent. If it wasn't for all the times the passage was mentioned in the Bones boards, I never would have looked at it. I skimmed through until the end. She needed to thank her parents, her brother, the coworkers at the museum, the BFFs, the FBI…

There it was, at the very end, the lengthiest paragraph. Booth.

"And finally to Booth, who gave me what I never thought I could receive. A friend, a heart, a glimpse of what true happiness can be, and all the things I assumed I had lost forever and can no longer hope to find again without him by my side. He gave me a life, saved me in every possible way and on more occasions than I can count, always at his own peril. He offered beautiful and painfully transient moments I will never forget and feelings too precious for me to repay, however much I may wish for it to be possible. He believed I deserved everything good, even when I myself disagreed.

And he was right all along. Andy _is_ based on him, though I tried hard to deny it. I regret not admitting it to him earlier. I now know fiction falls far, far short of reality.

I have faith you are in your heaven now, Booth. No man is worthier of such a place than you."

I cried again. I've been crying a lot recently. Ed is getting sort of worried.

Next time she comes to the diner, I will talk to her. I don't know what to say, and I don't know how to say it, and I don't think I'll be able to look at her up close without dissolving into tears, but I have to talk to her. I can't go on without doing it. This is starting to become some kind of scary obsession, and I know I can't let it go without talking to her or else I'll regret it for the rest of my life.

*****

"Excuse me, Ma'am?" My voice cracked in the middle of the short three word sentence. I felt absolutely mortified by this, though I don't remember why anymore. It seemed to me like I was the biggest idiot in the world, and everything I did in front of her was the stupidest thing to do. When I look back on the conversation I often still cringe when I think of my awkward start, though the rest of the conversation overshadows it entirely.

She wordlessly shifted her attention from the glass surface to my face. Her blue eyes were distant, her mind clearly occupied by other matters. It was in that instant, when she angled her head in my direction, that I fully saw the extent of the damage caused to her profile, and it was ugly. Her soft white skin was ravaged. But it was also in that same instant that I discovered she was… beautiful. Absolutely stunning. I knew she was pretty, and she had a nicer rack than mine, but it was much more than that. The hideousness on one side of her face only accentuated the sheer loveliness of the other. Seriously, a good-looking couple like them belongs in a chick-flick, how they ended up in the diner where I work is beyond me.

"I'm sorry to bother you," I continued clumsily after swallowing most of my embarrassment, "I just, I'm a fan of your books, and I really wanted to ask if you could sign my copy of your novel. Please?" I felt like a complete idiot. I already regretted my decision to approach her and I had barely muttered two sentences.

"Certainly," she answered coolly. Her voice was deeper, huskier than I remembered.

I handed her Eddie's copy of Bred in the Bone, the book I took from him without his permission. I had originally planned on making her sign her last one, but Ed still wasn't done with it since he's such a ridiculously slow reader.

She rummaged in her handbag and took out a pen. I once again felt stupid, standing there in front of her in awkward silence. I noticed scars on one of her hands that looked exactly the same as the scars on her face.

"I'm sorry," I finally told her as she uncapped her pen. I could think of nothing else to say.

"Pardon me?" she asked, her pen frozen in midair.

"About your loss, I mean. I'm sorry about your loss."

She stared at me, and I had the feeling she was actually _seeing_ me for the first time.

"Thank you," she whispered after a long silence. Her eyes fled mine and her gaze fell once more on the pie. She quickly recomposed her features and handed me the book after scribbling a few words. She obviously wanted me to leave.

"I'm sorry I bothered you, Dr. Brennan," I repeated weakly.

"No, no, not at all. I always look forward to meeting my fans." She wasn't even trying to sound sincere. At this point I was sure the whole conversation was the worst idea of my life.

"You see, I'm a waitress here," I blurted out, "and you order pies every time you're here, and you never eat them, and I kinda wondered why you did that."

I still don't know where I found the guts to say this since the only thing I wanted to do right that instant was to get out of her sight. I guess I just couldn't let it go, as embarrassed as I was. After all, I had cried over this woman's story more than at the end credits of Titanic back in late 1997.

She ignored me for a few moments but she looked visibly upset by the question. She slowly caressed the edge of her plate. I expected her to tell me to get out. When she finally replied, the answer was so soft I barely heard her.

"I don't like my fruits cooked."

Huh. That made absolutely no sense. If you don't like your fruits cooked, why on earth do you stare at pieces of pie as if they are the most captivating objects in the world? Why order any in the first place? Of course I was too intimidated to actually voice any of these thoughts.

Instead, I replied, "Oh. Ok."

What an eloquent answer. I become increasingly inarticulate when I'm nervous. But apparently it was the right answer because she kept on talking in a feverish, slightly desperate tone.

"Booth loved pie. His diet was quite unhealthy. I tried to convince him vegetarianism was a more rational decision considering the state of the earth, but of course he refused to listen to me. He was always trying to make me eat pie and he acted as if I was missing something extraordinary when I refused his offers. He'd look at me, with that… that smile he has and those eyes…" She trailed off.

"But you probably don't even know who he is." She paused and I thought she was done. She wasn't.

"We hated each other at the beginning of our partnership, you know. He had to get me arrested at the airport simply to talk to me, and I had to resort to blackmail to coerce him into letting me accompany him into the field. He was condescending and arrogant, and I suppose he thought the same of me. We were both terribly wrong. I was terribly wrong, at least. He's a good man, Booth. He deserved a better life, I was the one who constantly took him for granted." She paused again, this time longer, and I wondered why on earth she was telling me all this. But I was already too engrossed to question her reasons for long.

"He has a son. He's an incredible father, considering the way his own family treated him. And he's the kindest person. You have no idea everything he's done. I would be dead several times over without him. That last time, we were after a suspect. It was just a suspect, we arrested suspects all the time together. He yelled at me to get down, he was behind, protecting me as usual, and he suddenly jumped on me before I even had time to notice something was wrong. It wasn't just a transmitter this time."

A transmitter? What?

"He was heavy, I had trouble breathing under him. And his eyes were shut. I had no idea what he was doing until the place exploded." She laughed bitterly, sending a shiver down my spine. It was a strange laugh, completely mirthless, more likely to be associated with a person choking than a display of happiness. "It really is a good idea to close your eyes during an explosion. The flash is blindingly bright."

I hadn't expected her to tell me anything. I had secretly hoped for a few juicy details, but my realistic side had assured me I'd indubitably make a fool out of myself and she'd never come to the diner again because of all the annoying waitresses who worked in the establishment. I didn't think someone like her would actually want to talk to me, really talk to me, let alone tell me so many painful details about the man she loves.

"I went to the funeral. Booth cares about this kind of thing. He was hurt last time when I nearly didn't go. I half expected him to appear in his uniform so I could punch him again and everything would be fine. I even scanned the rows just to make sure he wasn't there, and I was actually disappointed when he was clearly absent. And Parker was crying so hard, it was horrible. It was a nightmare. We had so much trouble convincing the boy that his father was really dead. He went to the Hoover building by himself to see Booth's boss just so he could make sure his daddy wasn't faking like he did last time. When I'm in front of his grave I swear I can hear his voice, Booth's voice answering back in my head. I know it's irrational but I do. I've been doing a lot of irrational things, lately. Like coming to the diner and ordering pies when I know I won't eat any."

My eyes were wet and my vision was blurred by the tears. I felt privileged and completely undeserving of such confidences. Why me? Why was she talking to me? Because I was the only person who knew why she sat there? Did anybody else even know about the silent hours she spent in the diner except me, Millie, and the other employees? I still wonder about this today.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I murmured, my voice practically incomprehensible. Again, I couldn't think of anything fitting to say. There _was_ nothing else to say anyhow.

She finally looked back at me, then. She'd kept her stare on the plate the whole time. If she was surprised by my pitiful tears she didn't let it show.

She sighed, gauchely put her pen back in her purse. "I apologize for taking so much of your time. I don't know what took over me." Her tone was back to the cool and impersonal one she had used when first addressing me, but it sounded more strained, as if she was forcing herself not to care. She stood up and shook her head slightly, tiredly passing a hand through her brown hair. I'd never noticed how tall she was before. At that moment, the scarred side of her face looked uglier than ever.

I lamely said "No, no, it was an honor, and my shift is over anyway, I, please, Dr Brennan…" I definitely had nothing remotely intelligent to talk about that day.

I'm not sure she paid attention to any of the feeble protests that came out of my mouth. I would have ignored my own inane rambling too, if I was her. I think she just wanted somebody to listen, somebody who would just listen without judging her, or unsuccessfully try to offer her solace, or tell her about how everybody else missed Booth as much she did. She just wanted to talk, not receive advice on how to handle her grief. The fact that I was a perfect stranger meant she didn't have to bring up the conversation with anybody again, which was convenient because she appeared to regret every word she'd uttered. I guess that's why she talked to me. I was handy. I'm not sure if those are her true motives, of course, but it's the only explanation I came up with that makes sense. Either that or she's just… even lonelier than I thought.

I thought she was done, I was sure she was leaving, but as she opened the door, she turned her head towards me. "He died protecting me," she told me, and there was misery in her eyes, the kind I've never seen before and I'll likely never see a second time. "He died protecting me. Again. I had another chance, we both had another chance, and he _still_ died, and I'm _still_ alive. They say he would be dead even if he hadn't jumped on me, saved my life, as though it could make me feel any less guilty to be alive. They're wrong. Every time I see my repulsive face in a mirror I'm reminded of how wrong they all are. He shouldn't be dead. He didn't deserve to die. _I_ should have died protecting _him_."

The entire diner was silent. Everyone stared at the woman by the door. I'm not sure she was aware of the attention, because her fierce glare was still focused on me, and I doubt she could see much of anything. She'd finally started to cry. We were both crying.

"I miss him, you know. It's always the little things you miss the most. Like his annoying voice, or the way he always made me mad on purpose, and his stupid socks, and all those unhealthy pies he loved so much, and his flashy ties, and his childish belt buckles, and his charm smile, and the takeout in the middle of the night, and his laugh. And his stupid, irrational, unnecessary kindness. to me This diner is not the same without him, it will never be, but I come here anyway, I come here anyway…" She had no idea why she came back either.

"And you know what? I never told him I loved him. I'm a complete idiot, aren't I? A total goddamn idiot. A loser. A coward. Not that I was good enough for him in the first place, but when we both had a second chance and I still end up wasting it, I just feel so bad." She wiped her cheeks with her hands.

"I'll never hear him tell me he loves me back. But... He does. I know he does." Her quiet last sentence was obviously not intended for me.

She was gone in a flash while I stood in front of her abandoned booth, watching her climb into her car to sob on the steering wheel through the glass windowpane. Her untouched piece of apple pie still remained on the table.

I never saw her again.

When I went home, I apologized to Eddie for ignoring him lately, and he had the sense not to ask me why my eyes were red. His compassion made me cry again. But this time I cried against his shoulder, and when I was done I felt a little bit better. I love Eddie, I really do. Thank the Lord he never got blown up.

I still work at the diner, though I'm currently job hunting. I seriously can't bear to work here for much longer. Once, a cute young blonde and her smiling boyfriend sat for lunch at what I now consider to be 'Booth and Brennan's table', and were served two pieces of apple pie for dessert. I started bawling on the spot and my boss sent me home on sick leave for the rest of the day. Even if I don't resign I'll probably get fired in the end.

I never want to see a piece of pie again.

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**I'm still depressing. Yep. And isn't my title wonderfully appropriate? I had no idea what to call this fic.**

**Oh, and some details are different from the original story, I hope you don't mind, Anabelle. **


	2. Chapter 2

___I did not plan to write an epilogue. It was a tiny little piece of nearly nothing that recently came up to me in the shower, and I kinda liked it. It might ruin everything like Godfather 3 or Spiderman 3 or the new Star Wars series, but hell, I wrote it and I'll bear the consequences. Please tell me if it sucks. I'll probably ignore you, to be honest, but you can still tell me. _(You don't need to read 'Moving On' to understand _the epilogue__, but you might feel less inclined to bash__ this__ if you do read it first.)  
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_*****  
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**Epilogue**

I didn't even notice she had scars until I was standing right next to her table.

"So ma'am, are you ready to... woooow." I was totally surprised when she turned her face towards me. One side was normal, but the other side had horrible, terrifying burns on it.

"Yes, I would like to order" she answered calmly. I felt like an insensitive moron for reacting like I did, but the lady seemed to be accustomed to it, almost resigned. And I mean, those scars were _huge_, it's not my fault if I was caught off guard.

"Right. Yeah. Of course," I mumbled, staring at the table, then the floor, then at anything in my vicinity except for her head.

"I'd like... a piece of apple pie please. With a small coffee."

"Sure. That's great. I'll go get... I'll go." I walked away as fast as I dared.

After I awkwardly brought back her plate, the lady with the scars just sat there for the next five minutes without doing anything. She didn't even eat her pie, she just kind of looked at it wistfully, as though it was making her sad. Maybe my rude attitude made her depressed? I'd been pretty darn offending. Oh man, I felt so ashamed of myself.

Jesus, was she crying now? Did I make a customer cry?

I went and asked Charlene, who knows absolutely everything about everything in this dinner. She was old, has been working in this place since the turn of the century, and was relatively nice to young newcomers as long as they were decent looking males. It was her break, and she was reading one of those girl magazines females always read that are full of make-up tips and trendy hairdos.

"Charlene?"

"Hmm? Go back to work, Phil."

"I think I made a client cry," I told her nervously.

"Oh please. You're not that cute, darling." She rolled her eyes.

"Seriously. There's this woman who's got these... these creepy scars on her face, and she's been sitting there looking at pies without saying anything."

Charlene finally looked up from her magazine and stared at me like I'd turned fluorescent yellow.

"You're kidding me, right?" she whispered. It was the first time I'd ever heard her sounding so serious. "The pie lady came back?"

"Who?"

"The... the pie lady. Tell me, what did she look like?"

"Well, she had creepy scars on her face, first of all. And, erm, Brunette, deep voice, early-forties, cries when she sees pieces of pie... Is it normal for her to cry while looking at pastries?"

Charlene slammed the magazine onto the table, making me jump, and dashed out of the room. I confusedly followed. Charlene glanced at the booth carefully, as though she was afraid the woman would disappear into thin air if she turned her head and noticed us.

"Oh my God, Phil, it's really her." She turned to me feverishly. "We were all sure she would never come back. And she comes back _now_, after years, and years, and years. I wish I still had Sandra's number, she would totally freak out if she knew."

"Who is she?" I wondered. Charlene was ridiculously excited, as though she'd just seen Elvis.

"She's Temperance Brennan. A writer. She wrote books about murders and an FBI guy who was totally hot but then she killed him in the last book. I cried like a baby."

"So she's..."

"You see, a long long time ago she used to eat here all the time with this absolutely gorgeous FBI agent until one day they suddenly both stopped coming. I swear to God, they were the most _adorable_ couple you ever saw. Then one day she was back, sitting there all by herself in the same booth she's sitting in now with her face all disfigured and stuff, so of course we were curious about what happened to both of them. And then Sandra found out that the man had died in an explosion. That's why she stares at pie all the time, because it reminds her of her man. And that's why she never eats it herself."

"That's depressing."

She went on, and I felt as if she was entrusting me with a valued piece of Royal Dinner history that had long ago become legendary. "Sandra was a waitress here, and she became crazy obsessed with Dr. Brennan. Like really, _really_ obsessed. She's the one who recognized her first. And when she talked to the pie lady, they both ended crying in front of everyone. I wasn't there, but Millie told me the lady shouted about... about how she thought she deserved to die instead of her FBI partner. And after that, Sandra quit. She started crying every single time she saw a single piece of pie. It was so sad... But I mean, she finally got married to her guy before he could get blown up too, so something good came out of it. God, if only I could find her phone number, she would have wanted to know."

I have absolutely _never_ seen Charlene looking so serious.

"Why do you think she came back?" she whispered to me, still watching the lonely woman in her booth.

"How should I know?"

"I mean, it's been at least five years, maybe close to a decade, even. Why did she come back now? We were certain she wouldn't show herself again after she had a big breakdown like that. But there she is again. I don't understand why..."

"Why don't you go ask her?"

"Ask her? I don't know, it seems a little rude..." She was scared of talking to the 'pie lady', and I could see why. The woman was already crying and neither of us wanted to make things worse.

"Excuse me?" The pie lady said in my direction. "Could I have more coffee, please?"

"Of course," I replied, grabbing the coffee pot. I had to admit, I was a little scared of her myself.

She watched my hand refill her cup. "Thank you." She took a sip. "Did the employee in the corner inform you of every last detail about me?" she asked tiredly.

"Erm," I mumbled. I glanced at Charlene, who poked her head out from behind the wall. "She told me who you are. How you wrote a book and stuff." I might as well get the truth out of her while I'm here. "And she really wants to know why you're back, but she doesn't have the balls to ask you herself."

"So she still remembers me."

"Yeah. She's worked here for a long while."

We both turned to Charlene, who quickly backed out of sight.

The woman sighed. "If she wants to know, you may tell her that my father died recently. I thought... I might need Booth's help to get through it. Booth, my old partner, I mean. Obviously you don't know who he is."

She looked at the pie once again with a beautiful, heartbreaking smile that made my eyes start to itch. Allergies?

"Of course it's completely ridiculous," she went on. "He died a long time ago. But when I drove past the dinner today, I... I wanted to come in. I could feel... him." She caressed the edge of the plate. "It's a stupid reason, admittedly. However, I'm afraid this is all you have to tell your friend."

"Thank you ma'am. For, for telling me and stuff."

"Can you help me with something?" Her eyes bore straight through me, and I realized that she hadn't even met my eyes before this moment. "There was a waitress working here about eight years ago. She came to talk to me and I signed her book, if I recall. I'm afraid she never told me her name..."

"Sandra," I blubbered out.

"You know her?"

"No, I never met her. I... have heard of her?" She looked disappointed, and I felt bad for letting her down even though it technically wasn't my fault at all.

"Well, if you ever come in contact with this Sandra," she started scribbling something on a Post-It note, "could you please give her this? And thank her for listening to my incoherent sobbing with so much compassion."

"I will, Mrs. Brennan. And, and if it helps, they say she got married with her man after she met you."

"Did she? That's nice." She smirked a little to herself. "It's good to seize the day."

"I think she learned that from you." I commented, hoping I wasn't being too lame. But she was frowning to herself and probably wasn't listening to me.

"I wonder why I constantly treat the waiters as confidantes. I could go talk to Angela, but no, I always end up here..." she stared up at me like she'd suddenly remembered my existence. "Well, I should probably go now," she stood. She was a lot taller than I expected. "Thank you for your help."

"I'm glad you're glad. I mean, I'm happy I could help. And I'm glad you're not sobbing hysterically anymore." Argh. I am _so_ gentle and subtle and not rude...

But she chuckled and didn't seem offended. "_I'm_ glad I'm not sobbing anymore. When my partner died I felt like I had lost everything. But slowly, you move on whether you want to or not, and one day you realize that you're smiling again. And that maybe, the fact that Booth once loved me is enough to to live for." She was smiling then. And underneath the scars, her smile was very pretty.

She stared at the little piece of apple pie again with nostalgic eyes, but she wasn't crying this time. "I can still feel him here. In this dinner. This warm, irrational little gut feeling. If he's still here, maybe Max is still with me too. Maybe I should come more often in the future."

"It'd certainly be nice to see you again."

"Thank you. If you ever see Sandra, thank her for me."

"I'll do whatever I can to find her." I saw the lonely piece of pie sitting in the plate, untouched. "Hey wait, ma'am, do you still want to eat your pie?"

She seemed to ponder for an instant or two, as though she was making a very important choice. "I don't like my fruits cooked. You can have it if you want," she decided.

As I cleaned up her table I saw her standing outside on the pavement, looking at the diner with nostalgia. She closed her eyes, inhaled a deep long breath, and when she opened them she seemed to have found a new reserve of determination and strength. She resolutely climbed into her car and drove away.

I picked up the piece of pie. As I held it in my hands, I decided I couldn't eat it either.

*****

_It's a different narrator and the style is not the same, but hopefully it's a good kind of different. And like I said, it was just a tiny little idea that randomly popped up in my mind, it's not meant to be much._

_Edit: I didn't exactly write this second chapter to soften the blow to be honest. It's not meant to be a happy cheerful ending. It's simply a snippet of Temperance Brennan years later, and I don't think Brennan is the type of person who would let anything bring her down completely. She fights desperately and she ultimately wins, no matter how rough the going or how battered she is by the end. Also, when people write Character Death fics, they always seem to write about the immediate pain of separation without ever showing the characters at the stage when they're just... coping. There's something awfully courageous and bittersweet about hope. And I wanted to write that, even if I'm the only one who cares about what she's like eight years later._

_On a completely different note... I _just_ realized that I had more than 100 reviews for this fic. It's my first fic to reach that milestone, and it's a completely ridiculous number for a story with only two chapters, but I'm grateful. No really, I am. I realize that almost nobody will read this, but I wanna thank everyone who read the story and reviewed, or read without reviewing, or favorited, or admitted that they cried (I'm sorry), or told me they never wanted this to happen on the show, ever. You officially proved that this is the most (and probably only) memorable thing I'll ever write. Chocolate Booths for y'all.  
_


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